Chapter 4 Griffin
Griffin
There’s a storm cloud over my head shooting out lightning bolts at anyone who gets too close and rumbling with thunder every few seconds. Or fuck, maybe that’s me growling and snarling?
As if they can feel the charge in the air around me, everyone in the locker room leaves me alone, assuming I’m psyching myself up for tonight’s game. Truth is, I’m tired.
I didn’t sleep a wink last night.
Not that I’d admit it.
When Penny didn’t return from the restroom, worry crawled up my throat like the cheap tequila I drank too much of in high school.
While Dom chatted up some overly eager puck bunny, I’d volunteered to ask one of the workers to check the stalls.
She’d grinned as she informed me that Penny had walked out several minutes ago after seeing the “guests” at our table.
I’d been pissed off . . . at the bunnies for ruining the few precious minutes I get with Penny, at Penny for leaving without a word, and at Dominic because I can’t swing by her place to check on her without him finding out about it.
He’d laughed at his sister’s wingman behavior, promising to text her to make sure she was good.
I’m sure he did, but he had no reason to inform me if Penny was snuggled cozily into her bed at home or dead in a ditch somewhere.
So I tossed and turned, and considered texting her myself about a dozen times.
But I couldn’t. She wouldn’t have answered me anyway.
Hell, she would’ve enjoyed not texting me back and gone to sleep dreaming of ways to irritate the fuck out of me.
Not that it takes much where she’s concerned.
Her beautiful, chaotic existence is enough to do that.
This morning, when I was supposed to be doing my trainer-prescribed meditation and silently reciting positive affirmations, all I could picture were her muscular legs sticking out of that too-short dress.
I can’t believe Dom let her go out in that.
I can’t believe she ignored my order to put something else on.
I can’t believe I felt her soft skin beneath my palms and her full breasts on my cheeks, or smelled the soft, feminine, faintly vanilla scent of the skin between them.
Fuck, I’d wanted to nuzzle in closer, but surprisingly, I don’t have a death wish.
Though I can still imagine the way she felt, and it does seem worth potentially dying over.
“Let’s do this!” Brody yells across the locker room, his hands clenched as he flexes, his eyes wild.
He starts beating on his chest, the thuds echoing hollowly as he roars out some anxious energy.
He’s hyped and trying to get the rest of us in the zone with him.
A few of the guys do chime in, answering back with chest bumps and shouts of their own.
Bad mood aside, that’s not the vibe I prefer before games.
No Viking rally cries for me. I’m typically quiet, tuning out everyone and everything, going introspective as I prepare for two and half hours of war, which is probably why no one has noticed my silence.
Usually, I prep by visualizing the checks I’m gonna make, the fights I’m gonna have, and the win we’ll secure before the night is over.
Tonight, all I can think about is Penny, which is not only stupid but dangerous.
I consider asking Dom if he heard back from her last night, but don’t.
He’s wearing headphones, his head bobbing lightly as he listens to the same playlist he always does before a game.
By now, he’s probably raging out to “Bodies” by Drowning Pool, and it’d take a solid tap to pull him from his routine.
He’s here, though. That’s answer enough to reassure me that Penny is fine. She must be, or Dom would be scouring the streets for his beloved little sister, and her parents would be on the news promising every cent they own to get her back.
Fuck, I’m so far gone it’s ridiculous.
For a woman who hates me. For a woman I can’t have. For a woman I don’t deserve.
I grind my teeth on my mouthpiece as I close my eyes, telling myself that the cheerleaders will be out there before the game starts. They’ll do their pregame performance, then line up to shake their pom-poms as we skate onto the ice. I’ll see Penny and then get my head right before the puck drops.
That’s the plan until a glove appears in my peripheral vision. I slowly turn to see who the hell dares to interrupt my mental prep.
Fucking Brody.
I lift a brow in question, and he moves his fist closer. “Come on, man, hit it. For luck.”
“You mean the way I hit your mom last night?” calls Howe.
He mimes some ass-slapping to go with his hip thrusts as he grins devilishly at Brody.
The two of them obviously haven’t gotten around to shaking hands and singing “Kumbaya” yet, but they won’t let it affect them on the ice.
In the locker room, though? All bets are off.
I sigh but tap my fist to Brody’s in solidarity. He’s annoying, but he’s my teammate and I’ve got his back. He’d just better have mine and not get me into any unnecessary scuffles.
I chuckle to myself at the thought, because if there’s anything necessary in hockey, it’s fighting.
Finally, it’s time.
As we march closer to the rink, my heart thuds dully in my chest and the hallway gets colder. Eventually, I can hear the crowd getting louder and the announcers calling out stats for tonight’s game. Then I see the cheerleaders.
I do a quick search, having long ago memorized exactly where Penny stands in the lineup, and when I see her, the knot in my gut finally relaxes.
I take a deeper breath than I have in what feels like forever.
She looks different today, her hair curled and a full face of makeup.
But mostly, the difference is in her smile.
She always smiles when she’s cheering, like it makes her happy to the depths of her pretty soul, and she rarely smiles at me, only when she thinks she’s gotten one over on me.
Even now, as I pass, I see the edges of her lips waver like she doesn’t want to give me the gift of her encouragement, even though it’s her literal job to do so.
But she’s okay.
And now, so am I.
In the words of my teammate, “Let’s do this!”
The horn blares for the ending of the second period, and I’m soaked in sweat. We’re up one to the Beavers’ nothing, but Jack Off had to skate like a demon to get that point. I’ve already been in three mid-level serious scuffles, but nothing with lasting damage.
We reconvene in the locker room with a round of hoots and hollers, fist taps and chest bumps, celebrating the progress we’ve made so far and vowing to take the Beavers down, dam and all.
“Those Beavers are uglier than Brody’s mom, and I had to close my eyes when she sucked my dick.”
“Beav-ah, you make me wanna heav-ah. Huuurggghuh.”
There’s also some pointed comments about whether they shave their beavers, but before we can get too carried away, Coach motions us over for his version of a pep talk.
“Good work out there so far, guys. Keep the pressure on goal. Sneak it in on the left corner. That’s Mack’s weaker side, and it looks like he’s got some groin tightness there tonight. ”
Coach is an eagle-eyed observer and catches everything on the ice, for the Hawks and the opposing team. I haven’t noticed the Beavers’ goalie, Mack, looking any worse for wear, but if Coach sees it, it’s there. It might be just an inch or a tenth of a second, but it’s there.
Having said his piece, Coach goes into his office, where he’ll watch plays from the first two periods and make any further notes for the last one.
The rest of us have our own intermission routines to prevent our muscles from cooling down and tightening up.
Me? I take off my skates and wiggle my toes, getting blood flow to the extremities, while basically inhaling a bag of sour apple gummy bears, washing down each bite with measured sips of Red Bull.
Sugar and caffeine feel like the nectar of the gods mid-game, and the sourness keeps my mouth from going dry.
All around me, guys are doing their own things—retaping their sticks, stripping out of their gear or leaving everything on, listening to music or hitting the trainer station, and everyone pees.
If you’re not peeing mid-game, you’re dehydrated.
As the timer over the door ticks down, we simultaneously start getting geared back up. Coach reappears and leads us out without further advice, which means we’re doing something right. He’s not a yeller, but if we’re fucking up, he’ll always be the first to let us know.
Skating back onto the ice, my focus stays rink level.
I don’t even hear the crowd at this point, keeping my mind on the last period and my job.
But there’s still some intermission bullshit going on at the centerline.
Internally, I grunt in annoyance but then realize that it’s a fan surrounded by four cheerleaders.
Instinctively, I search for Penny and find her to the right side of the face-off circle, on my side of the ice, which means I can warm up in my space and still see her.
I almost smile, but catching the reflex, I quickly bite down on my mouthpiece as I skate over and start my drills.
But my eyes are on her. She’s wearing the cheerleader uniform I hate the most of the two they rotate between.
The less-hated one consists of skintight black yoga pants with the team name emblazoned down the leg and a matching crop top.
What she has on tonight exposes even more—the top slightly longer but the skirt barely past her ass.
The ass I don’t want anybody looking at.
Except me.
As if she can hear me thinking about her, Penny glances my way, and when she meets my cold, dark stare, a shiver visibly works through her. She plays it off as an excited shimmy, but I don’t think the shiver had anything to do with the icy temperature of the rink, but rather my own frostiness.